


Postcards from the Past (that you never meant to send)

by Dyed_Red



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Due to the inherent consent issues in a fuck or die trope, Fuck Or Die, John's Winchester's A+ Parenting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Memory Alteration, Season/Series 01, Set during S1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 04:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20576402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dyed_Red/pseuds/Dyed_Red
Summary: An argument about how messed up the hunting life is rattles loose a memory that Sam didn’t know he had. The fallout is a little fraught, but a series of chick-flick moments help him and Dean sort it out.Set during (loosely follows) S1.





	Postcards from the Past (that you never meant to send)

“Not this again.” 

“I’m not saying I’m looking for an exit.” 

“You’re not _not_ saying it.” 

“I’m just saying that after we kill Yellow Eyes – is it so bad if I want to go back to Stanford? Finish what I started there? Build a _life_?” 

“You _have_ a life, Sam.” 

Hunting isn’t a life, it’s a death sentence. He doesn’t say it, but it’s on the tip of his tongue. He forces it back, just barely, and his chest feels hotter for his trouble. 

“New motel twice a month, that’s not exactly a life. You’d know that if you ever put down a root or two.” 

Dean slams down the beer he’s been drinking on the table behind him. They’re both standing already but the motion makes the motel room smaller. Sam wonders why he just had to pick a fight, again. He’s been doing a lot of that recently. 

“We save lives. Isn’t that enough for you?” 

When was Dean going to understand that ‘enough’ has nothing to do with it? 

“It’s always about that with you, isn’t it?” Sam pushes himself off the back of the couch where he’s been leaning. “That you’re not enough? I swear to god Dean, can you get it through your head that it’s not about you, it’s about this _life – _about wanting something different for myself!” 

“Don't get it twisted,” Dean is seething. “This ain’t about me, Sammy. What’s so bad about the life? Other than the moving around – you don’t get to keep on complaining about that one so just tell me – other than that what the hell was so bad about our lives you had to _leave_?!” 

“Other – ? Are you serious? Moving was the least of it, Dean! How about being raised by a barely functional alcoholic? Running drills at dawn while he barked orders, learning to shoot when I was nine, making a sawed off at twelve? How about how half the people we knew growing up _died_?” 

“What about saving lives?” 

“What about getting caught in the crossfire?!” 

“We always make it out just fine - ” 

“Fine? Since _when_? What’d you call the poltergeist that fucked up Dad’s knee for eternity? Or the werewolf that snapped your wrist like a twig or the time a hex put in you in the hospital for a week? What about the scar down my ribs from that ghoul in Colorado, or losing my virginity to my _older fucking brother_ \- ” 

His words screech to a halt in his throat, caught up and cut off. 

For a second neither of them breathes. 

Sam had almost – he’d almost forgot it happened. _Had_ forgot it happened, somehow, against all odds. 

“I didn’t – that wasn’t – ” 

“Sam – ” Dean swallows on Sam’s name, like his body doesn’t know whether to translate his shock into anger or apology and it’s stuck between them. “Just...” 

Sam reaches up in the space between them. It’s a few feet. It’s a hundred-foot gap. 

“Dean…” 

Dean shakes himself but he can’t, obviously can’t, and he’s heading for the door. 

“Wait!” 

He doesn’t, and his jacket slips through Sam’s fingers. He thinks about going after him but needs to catch his breath. 

Did he really just say that? They weren’t supposed to talk about it. Or was that just some idea he had? Is that why he couldn’t remember? Did - 

His chest seizes. He swallows back what he recognizes as panic. Normally it only hits on a hunt, when someone (when _Dean_) gets hurt but right now it’s ripping through his chest. He sits down on the stained carpet, back against the bed, breathing deep. The memories are slipping up and he can’t figure out if he should choke them back or pull them up and sift through, examine and compartmentalize. 

He tries to remember if he’d ever remembered that moment before. He knew – some part of him definitely knew it had happened. Somehow, it was there, but before where it was just some errant fact, tucked away without examining, no more worthy of memory than the time he had gum on his shoe, it is now bright and plain as day, vivid and real and shocking. Repression? He’d heard of it, taken a psych elective as a science credit at Stanford. It didn’t really matter what caused it though; it was there now, out in the open. 

All he can think for a solid minute is that he should never have fucking said it. 

… 

_“You can’t be serious.”_

_“Do I look like I’m fooling around, Dean?”_

_He swallows tight, stands a little straighter. His knuckles are white where they grip the shotgun. “You said Sammy would be safe at the library.”_

_“He will be.”_

_“Then why do you need me to go get him?”_

_His dad gives him a look that tells him he’s being particularly stupid. _

_“If that thing infects virgins…”_

_“We won’t let it get your brother, Dean. We’ll protect Sam. But we need bait, and we can’t wait for some other kid to wander into this thing’s traps and get themselves killed, alright? So go and get your brother and we’ll deal with it.”_

_He nods, no other option really, and does as he’s told. His dad goes about setting up the runes and sigils - traps they’ll need to catch the thing infecting virgins, a drude, which turns out is some unholy hybrid of a witch, a succubus, and a unicorn._

_This should be cinch, after all. Dad’s on it, he knows what it is and how to kill it, so all they have to do is lure it out and trap it._

_Turns out – it's not a cinch._

_He gets back to the abandoned house with Sammy in tow, picked him up in the Impala and teased him gently about his v-card while his little brother glared balefully out the window with red cheeks, and he’s not at the room where their dad is waiting, not even past the entranceway, when the drude gets the jump on them._

_She’s ugly. Dean hadn’t got a look at her before but he does now as she shrieks and launches herself at Sam. She’s naked with skin the colour of moss and twigs for hair and yellow eyes and pointed teeth. But the grotesque doesn’t slow Dean down for a second and he gets a shot in, watches her hiss and dissolve into mist._

_“Dean!” It’s dad, rushing their way, down the steps that lead up the second floor. Dean lowers his weapon, grabs Sam’s wrist and sets toward Dad. _

_He freaks out a little when Sam yanks his wrist back. _

_“Sam, we gotta - …” _

_He turns. Sam’s irises are yellow. Dean’s stomach drops. _

_“I don’t… feel so good.”_

_Their dad skids down into the foyer they’re in. Dean barely registers him. He’s too busy trying to close his horrified ‘o’ of a mouth. _

_“Dean where the hell is – ” Dad pushes past him then his mouth snaps shut._

_“Dad?”_

_“Sam,” he breathes. It rattles Dean into something more alert, the caution in Dad’s voice. _

_“Is he gonna be…”_

_Dad’s already in front of his brother, testing Sam’s forehead, his other hand taking his wrist pulse._

_“Dammit Dean, you were supposed to watch him.”_

_“I was watching him! He – she came outta nowhere.”_

_“You never should’ve taken your eyes off him.”_

_“I didn’t want him here in the first place!”_

_“Mind your tongue, son.” It’s sharp and pissed, but what he mutters next hurts worse. “This is like the shtriga all over again.”_

_Dean shuts up. _

_“You guys…” Sam’s shivering and he swallows, “just gonna keep arguing like I’m not here, or…?”_

_His voice is already tempered with pain, or weakness. He looks off, kind of ashen. He’s all of fourteen, bean skinny and a mop of shaggy hair, a growth spurt a few months back that has him getting closer to six feet, except now he’s curled in on himself and looks smaller. _

_“We’re gonna get you right.” Dad says it decisively, and his eyes land on Dean. He nods to the side room off the foyer and Dean follows him, watches out of the corner of his eye as Sam sighs too heavily and sits on a stair, head in his hands._

_“It’s hurting him.”_

_“Damn right it is. Sucking on his life force from inside. Thing kills in less than a day. Hours, when the victim’s young.”_

_“What do we do?” _

_“Only option is to trap it and kill it.”_

_“How?”_

_Dad looks at Sam, then at him. His face gets pinched. Dean shakes his head._

_“We’re not hurting Sam.”_

_“That’s not what… it’s already in him, son. Can’t kill it so long as it’s there, only thing to do is force it out while he’s in the warded room, lock it out of him but where we want it.”_

_Maybe it wasn’t clicking because he didn’t want it to. He’s not dense. Except he wishes he was, in that moment. “Do we – c’mon, no working girl alive is gonna come to a place like this and – he’s way too young on a good day, that’s too many questions.”_

_“I’m not talking about a working girl.”_

_Now he actually feels dense, because he really doesn’t get it. His dad glances him up and down, appraising. His brain connects the dots and his eyes go wide. He takes a step back, almost trips over his feet but his dad steadies him, hand on is arm._

_“Son. The drude will kill him.”_

_“Ki – ” Dean’s throat clicks on the syllable. “But Dad it’s – ”_

_“If you can’t do it…” he looks meaningfully over in Sam’s direction. _

_It’s almost instant, so much that it’s a shock even to him. An irrepressible, dangerous rage that snaps hot and angry in his chest, ready for violence. It’s nestled right next to disgust and horror and about seven other fetid feelings he can’t quite name but he’s standing in his dad’s line of sight to Sammy, face hard and voice low and mad,_

_“Don’t even think about it, Dad. We get a girl and we - ”_

_“He’s young, Dean. You said it yourself there’s too many questions, and if the drude feels threatened she’ll feed faster. Even if we hire someone, no girl’s gonna cut it if he passes out halfway through. Someone’s gotta finish.”_

_Dean sucks in air between his teeth. “He... so it’s... if anyone’s got to – it’s me.”_

_His dad nods. It was a foregone conclusion. “Get your brother upstairs to the room where I set up the sigils.”_

_So matter of fact, like they aren’t discussing their plan for him to rape his baby brother._

_“Where will you be?”_

_“You’ll need some supplies.”_

_Dean doesn’t let himself think about that – or about anything, really. His brain is a fuzzy white noise as he moves stiffly over to his brother, helps him up off the step with a hand around his arm, marches him upstairs, through the abandoned house this drude was calling home._

_“Dean…where are we – I mean, shouldn’t I go to a hospital? Or…” he laughs from where he’s being dragged along behind Dean, a little uneasy, “a strip club or something?”_

_Dean grits his teeth. Protect Sammy. Protect Sammy. How the hell is this protecting Sammy?_

_He manages to reign some of that in when they get to room with the wards though, if only because Sam suddenly lurches on his feet, stumbling into him._

_“Hey hey, I got you, you’re okay. C’mon, Sammy, you’re gonna be fine.” He’s saying it half to himself, a little too desperate, like Sam is injured but he’s not, not in any way Dean can see. He is clutching to Dean though and his eyes are tinged with a little black now, right around that yellow iris._

_“Dean,” he coughs, hacks really, curls up a little in Dean’s arms, “what…?”_

_He swallows and cradles his brother a little. “Wards, little brother. When we flush out the drude, she’s gonna be trapped in here and ten kinds of pissed.”_

_Sam nods, “no wonder she feels so… ugh.”_

_He laughs a little, pats Sam’s head because he can’t help it. The kid’s growing like a weed and gets annoyed whenever Dean’s fingers stray to his hair, either to ruffle or in comfort it doesn’t seem to matter these days. He’s not complaining right now though. _

_“Yeah, she can’t come out till she drains you. But if we force her out, she’s screwed. Skewered, really.”_

_“Force her out how?”_

_He holds his brother a little tighter. _

_“Sam… I’m sorry.”_

… 

Dean downs his fourth whiskey of the night. He’s not a fan of getting drunk, not alone, not when he’s out at a pub. You have to keep your wits about you. Half the hunters he’s met are drinkers, and he’s seen how long you survive if you can’t handle the job without a flask at your side. 

Still – he thinks he’s earned this one. 

The hunt was over, he and Sam were supposed to hit the road in the morning. Just a couple of beers to celebrate and then back on the road. Except – 

He presses his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose, then right against his eye sockets, like that’ll somehow drown out the ringing in his ear, or the memories in his head playing on repeat. 

Sam wasn’t supposed to remember that. 

He did though, somehow, and Dean wondered for how long. Had it rattled loose at Stanford? Before that, and he’s pretended not to remember? Or was it unravelling now? 

“That whiskey’s not getting any younger.” 

The bartender is pretty but Dean can’t care. Maybe he should – hookup with her, console himself for a night, lose himself in a body that isn’t his brother’s and re-suppress all the feelings rattling open boxes from corners of his mind he doesn’t let himself dwell on? 

Nah. 

He’ll take his night to wallow. He’s earned that too. Dad is who knows where, he’s tearing up the countryside with Sam trying to keep shit together, and now this. It’s like the hits keep coming. 

He tips his shot at her and then downs it, welcomes the burn that’s getting much less burny now that he’s on number five. 

God, what’s he gonna do? Go back to the motel drunk as a skunk and tell Sam he’s _sorry_? He’s pretty sure sorry doesn’t cut it, not on this. Not like he’d know how to say it anyway. 

Maybe if he gets drunk enough it won’t matter. Sam’ll take pity and they can go back to pretending that it never happened, can pretend Sam never said it and hit the road again and in a week they’ll be back to normal. 

“Another,” he tells the bartender, liking that plan. 

A drink to forget. Again. 

… 

_Sam feels like his insides are melting. No, maybe not melting – shriveling? Like everything is getting sucked right out of him but from the inside._

_He’s not really sure what’s going on. Or he is, really, but he doesn’t know what the plan is yet. His dad had come into the room where he and Dean were waiting and barked at him to go wash up while he talks to Dean. He did, feeling a little too hot. He splashes water on his face and starts when he glances up, seeing yellow in eyes, blackness surrounding them._

_‘Once the drude latches on to a host, it seeps in like an infection. The host’s immunity will drop, and death is imminent unless the infection can be excised. The only known way of curing the host is to make it unsuitable for the drude, who can only infect virgins.’_

_He pauses at the sink, the memory from what he was reading in the library’s occult section before Dean picked him up sliding into place._

_Oh._

_He’d been joking earlier, about finding a strip club. He realizes that Dean’s apology, his tight-jawed lack of explanation..._

_Sam’s hands shake on the sink. That’s what Dad meant by washing himself up. Go clean up and get ready for…_

_He breathes a little too fast, not deep enough. Which one of them - ? It has to be Dean. He couldn’t – it couldn’t be Dad. He – they have to…_

_He’s grateful the rundown place the drude’s been using has running water. He cleans himself thoroughly, cheeks flaring red as he does. He’s half surprised dad let him out of his sight while he’s infected, even if the drude can’t leave him until he’s dead but even so, that means it must be serious, what he needed to talk to Dean about. A set of rules for incestuously de-virgin-ifying his brother?_

_The laugh bubbles up hysterically and he slaps a hand over his mouth, chokes it back. Maybe he’s delirious with the fever he’s running; he’s sweating again and it stings his eyes. Maybe this is all just a bad, weird dream._

_(Never mind that without the pain, and threat of death, and sick twisted up feelings inside him, and without knowing Dean was going to hate this, that Dad was going to fucking know – without any of that, some part of him... some part of him might welcome this. Want it. But he’s not ready to think about that right now. Definitely – not right now)._

_The grim looks on Dad and Dean’s faces when he comes back into the room say it’s not all just a bad dream. Sam shivers. _

_“Sam, your brother’s going to…”_

_“I know.” He’s a little shaky on his feet and suddenly can’t look at either of them, at anything but his feet._

_“I’ll be just in the other room.”_

_His eyebrows and head shoot up to make unfortunate eye contact. “That’s – way too close.” His cheeks feel like they’re on fire._

_“The drude doesn’t just infect. When she gets out, she’s gonna be ten types of angry, and neither of you will be in much state…”_

_God, he can’t do this. Not with his dad in the next room. Not at all, not – _

_“Just… just wait outside for a little while. At least a little…” his voice sounds shaky. Shit, he’s not about to lose it. He’s a Winchester, he’s on a hunt, he’s not allowed to fall to pieces._

_A pause. “Okay. Just this once. I’ll be back in time for…”_

_Sam feels a little sick. Dad moves to Dean, claps him on the shoulder. Sam hears it more than sees it, eyes glued to the floor. _

_“Remember what I said.”_

_“Yessir.”_

_Dad marches out of the room. Sam’s breathing gets somehow, impossibly, faster._

_“I don’t know why I’m freaking out,” Sam laughs a little, “it’s not even a – everyone loses their virginity eventually.”_

_Not to their older brothers, but that should make it better, not worse. He knows Dean won’t hurt him, knows Dean loves him. Dean’s his... Dean’s his hero, not that he knows how to say it. And Dean’s fucking beautiful, everyone knows it, and Sam’s not gonna pretend he’s never thought... It should make this easier. It doesn’t._

_“Hey, Sammy, it’s…”_

_Sam shakes his head. Dean can’t even pretend it’s okay. He steals a glance at his brother and the older just looks green around the gills. Sam chances a step closer, then stumbles, crumples to his knees because it _hurts_ – whatever this unicorn witch monster is doing inside of him, she’s pissed._

_“Sam!” Dean’s at his side in an instant, rubbing soothing circles into his back and Sam buries his face into Dean’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent of that leather jacket and the sweat that’s drying on Dean’s skin._

_“Hurts.”_

_“I know. I’m sorry. It – Dad said it might, that she might try to fight back. Stop this from happening. That or… she might try to drain you before we can kick her out. Fast-like.”_

_Sam shudders. Great._

_“Yeah.”_

_Oh, he said that out loud._

_“Sammy, we don’t… I don’t know how much time we have, man.”_

_It tastes like betrayal in the back of his throat, but Sam knows this isn’t Dean’s fault. He’s laying the blame at Dad’s feet for this one, and when he’s not scared as hell he’ll have time to be angry. Right now he’s too busy shivering and trying not to think about how there’s a monster inside of him, sucking up his life force. He manages to nod into Dean’s neck. _

_“Yeah. Just – just do it.”_

_Dean swallows. Sam can hear him do it. Then he leans back, just a little, and Sam almost thinks there’s going to be eye contact but he pauses._

_“I… we can do this a different way, if you want, but otherwise I’m gonna – I’m gonna just act like you’re anyone. Not like you’re you, ‘kay? You get my drift?”_

_Not really, but it sounds like a plan so Sam acknowledges it with a ‘yeah’. He can feel a bit of tension seep out of Dean from where he’s gripping Sam’s arms – when did he start gripping Sam’s arms? He must really be out of it – and then Dean is leaning back._

_And then – _

_And then he has a mouthful of Dean. Or more specifically, Dean’s mouth is on his. That’s what he meant. Sam catches up even as he inhales, as his mouth opens, as his older brother cups his face and deepens the kiss._

_Is it supposed to feel good to kiss your brother? Sam’s not sure. It does though, and the feeling wriggles around in his insides. It can’t be any weirder than all the times he’s got hard listening to Dean have sex with a girl in the next room, or that one time, in the next bed. Can’t be weirder than getting a boner during sparring practice, aching to rub himself against the carpet Dean would invariably press him down into when he won every time. This is just – more teenage stuff, which is what he chalks everything up to these days. Raging hormones and all that. Just him and Dean and not enough space or boundaries and – _

_And Dean’s tongue is in his mouth. Sam shivers, has no clue what to do with his own, has never done this before. He’d be fumbling over himself and launched into Dean’s lap if he had half enough energy to. As it is he tries to copy Dean, tries to make this just like Dean said, like they’re anyone. Like they’re not brothers. Like the weird hot feeling in his gut isn’t nestled close and tight to the sensation of disgust and like that isn’t somehow making his head spin in a good-ish kind of way._

_By the time Dean breaks the kiss they’re both panting. Sam’s head feels light. _

_“Still with me?”_

_He manages to mumble, but he doesn’t think it was the right response because Dean swears under his breath, and then his hands are on Sam’s clothes. He’s suddenly shy but there’s nothing for it and he lifts his arms, lets Dean slide him out of his layers of shirts, shivering now that his overheated skin is exposed to the air._

_“Shit, Sammy, don’t pass out.”_

_“I won’t,” he says, realizes it’s a bit of a slur, that he’s laid himself back on the scratchy rug in the center of the room they’re in – no proper furniture for this, the consequence of picking an open room to set up the binding sigils. _

_He bites the inside of his cheek and forces his eyes to refocus. Dean is kneeling over him, stripping off his own shirt. _

_He’s beautiful. Goddamn just – beautiful. _

_Sam’s heart is beating somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, but he keeps his eyes open and he can tell Dean’s relieved when their gazes lock. Dean grabs something out of a pocket, a little bottle and it takes Sam’s brain a second to catch up. He pops the cap and this time it’s him who flushes. He’s suddenly furtive, eyes shifting anywhere but on Sam._

_“Your… d’you need help with your…” he motions vaguely to Sam’s pants and Sam forces himself to lean up on his elbows. He feels sluggish but he’s not in pain anymore. No, the drude must’ve figured out it’s a waste to hurt him since Dean was gonna do what he had to do. Better to drain him as fast as possible. _

_Sam wriggles out of his pants. Dean helps, tugging on them, and Sam glances up at him, toying with the edge of his boxers but it’s dumb, it’s so dumb, Dean’s seen it before and he’s got to see it now and – _

_“Let me.”_

_Sam flops back on the area rug and throws an arm over his eyes. He lifts his hips as Dean tugs his boxers down, swallows back his heart that’s trying to rear out his throat with every breath._

_“Hey, it’s okay. It won’t hurt. I promise.”_

_It’s a damn lie, he’s sure it is. He spreads his legs any way. He doesn’t ask if they need to do it this way, go this far. He wants to, wonders if a hand or mouth would be enough, but he bites his tongue. It doesn’t matter, he trusts dad’s books and he doesn’t want to drag this out testing things anyway._

_There’s a wet, tentative touch and he flinches but Dean shushes him, rubs his hand up and down his thigh. Sam clenches his fists._

_“Let me see your face.”_

_Sam shakes his head, jaw set. _

_“I need to know Sammy, need to see…”_

_“You don’t,” his voice is a mess. He doesn’t know what it’s doing, but there were at least two different octaves there._

_“How’m I gonna know if you pass out?”_

_He wants to argue that if Dean can’t tell his date’s passed out, he’s doing something wrong. It almost makes him laugh, but catches in his throat. He drops his arm all the same. Something in Dean’s voice sounded a little too desperate._

_The finger is slick, and weird. It’s so weird. Sam instinctively moves away from it but Dean’s other hand clamps on his hip. He shushes him and Sam stills, breathing too fast, too shallow. Dean presses that finger back in. _

_“How’s it feel?”_

_“Like taking a shit.”_

_Dean laughs and Sam wishes he thought it was funny. It’s intrusive. _

_“I’m gonna do another one.”_

_Sam scrunches his eyes and feels it. With one it was uncomfortable, but with two it stretches, burns, and this time when his body moves to get away, it’s not from the weirdness so much as the wrongness, the pain. Dean shushes him again like he’s some nervous colt and he grits his teeth._

_“Okay?”_

_He starts to shake his head but nods. When he opens his eyes to the ceiling there’s a bit of darkening around the edges of his vision. He thinks he could be hard, maybe, but his senses feel duller now. He bites his lip to confirm the theory._

_“Sammy?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“Is it okay?”_

_“I…” his tongue feels thick in his mouth. He can process what Dean’s saying, but making a cogent response – how does that happen? He can say he’s okay. Is he? It doesn’t hurt as much. How long has Dean being doing that? He’s feeling a little…_

_“Shit.” Dean’s right in front of his eyes then, concern swimming in his green eyes. “Sammy?”_

_“Mhmm.” He can do that much. He tries to smile._

_“Stay with me. I’m gonna – I’m gonna hurry this up, okay? Just don’t – don’t pass out.” _

_He nods, or tries to. Not sure if he succeeds. He feels – his hips are being lifted and his legs latch on automatically. His arms do too, he thinks, because he feels nestled in something, someone, skin and skin and skin and that’s nice, that’s really nice, and –_

_He halfway screams, suddenly alert, shocked. The sound is muffled into Dean’s shoulder. His eyes are popped open and his fingers are digging hard into Dean’s back, legs tight around his waist because that – _

_“Sammy?”_

_“’M okay, ‘m okay, I – ” his voice is strained, everything is strained. It _hurts_. And this time not because of the drude. “Keep going.”_

_“You sure?”_

_“Dean please, please – keep,” he swallows, “keep going.”_

_He needs to get this over with._

_Miraculously, Dean does, and Sam muffles the noise he makes on the next thrust by biting the flesh between his brother’s shoulder and neck. His brother. He almost laughs, hysterical again (still?), but it’s punched out of him on the following thrusts, each deeper than the last. His brother is – inside of him. God, he’s inside of him. Stretching him out and so deep he feels like he’ll explode, burning somewhere hot and tight and it hurts and – _

_“So good, Sammy,” Dean’s voice is hot near his ear. His arms are around Sam, holding him in place tightly, rolling into him so that Sam doesn’t have to move at all, not sure if he could if he tried. “So tight and hot, know it hurts baby but it won’t be long, so good for me, just stay awake for me, keep biting.”_

_Sam gasps, then does exactly that, bites Dean again because he went deeper, pressed in harder. He’s impaled and stretched around it, uncomfortably full. His fingers scrabble for purchase on Dean’s slick back._

_“C’mon Sammy, that’s it, you’re okay. Just a little more. Gotta – gotta go harder.”_

_Sam lets out a noise that might be a sob or might be Dean’s name but he’s not sure, and has to chase it up with a hasty nod into Dean’s neck so he doesn’t hesitate. They’re holding too each other too tight, Dean’s fingers feel bruising on him, arms tight around him like iron rods. Everything is hot, too hot, he’s sweating everywhere and it almost burns but it burns most where they’re joined and – and Dean starts going faster, harder. _

_“Just a little more.”_

_They can’t have been at it long. Or has it been hours? He’s going to have bruises._

_Sam swallows, “yeah,” he manages, his vision fading a second later. He clutches to Dean, trying to make sure his arms don’t give out. “Yeah, Dean.”_

_He’s going to black out. He’s definitely going to black out. It doesn’t even hurt, not anymore, not even though Dean’s slamming in to him so hard he might not walk for a week. Or maybe that’s just in his head, and maybe Dean’s being gentle, and maybe he – _

_“Sam – fuck, gonna, ah Sa – ah – my – ”_

_The feeling is – like coming up for air. Like he was drowning. Like suddenly everything is snapped back to reality. He can feel Dean, feel him everywhere. It’s deep and hot and they’re connected with more skin contact than he’s ever had with anyone, ever. He can feel where his own body is stretched around Dean, how sore and halfway good it feels. Can feel the strain in the rest of his muscles, the pull. Can feel how his own dick is throbbing between his legs, greedy for attention. Can feel his jaw, and it –_

_His mouth slams open, wide like his jaw is unhinged and something – the drude – is blasting out of it at high speed, mist and a shriek and Sam doesn’t even have time to close his mouth before the clang of the wrought iron spear forks the creature to the wall. _

_He’s still gasping around the sweet taste of air in his lungs when he arches his head back to stare up at his father upside down. The man’s looking at the corner, where the creature’s still melting, and Sam spares it a glance before he looks up at Dean. Dean, who’s over him, who’s leaned back now with his hands on the carpet framing Sam’s head rather than around him. Dean, who’s dick is definitely still inside him, and possibly (definitely) still twitching._

_“Get cleaned up boys. Outside in ten.”_

… 

Sam can’t sleep. He doesn’t even try, though he stares at the ceiling in the dark, letting the street lights and the motel’s neon sign illuminate it for him, too nonplussed to bother closing the curtains. 

Dean stumbles in after three, smelling like a bar. Sam curls his nose and wrestles with a question he’s been avoiding for at least an hour. Does he pretend to be asleep, or does he force this conversation now? 

Dean stumbles to the bathroom, slams the door a little too loud, the effect of too much alcohol. The water runs for a while but he doesn’t take all night. Sam sees that he’s got a bottle of water with him when he comes out. That’s something, at least. 

He sits up. Dean eyes him. It doesn’t last long. Dean definitely looks away first. 

“Morning.” 

It’s all he says before he flops down on his own bed. Sam stares at his prone form. What’s he supposed to say to that? 

“We should talk about this.” 

“Morning.” 

“Dean - ” 

“_Morning, _Sammy.” 

It’s desperate, not that Dean would admit it. Sam might be a stubborn ass, but how’s he supposed to argue with that kind of plea? 

So he gives up. “Morning.” 

As if either of them have slept with any quality by the time 7am rolls around. Sam’s not really sure he slept at all, wide awake as soon as Dean’s snoring abates into the sound of him smacking his lips, mouth undoubtedly dry and tacky. 

“Water bottle is still on the nightstand.” 

Dean groans but sits up and downs it. “We got any Tylenol?” 

“Bathroom, my dopp kit.” 

Dean hauls himself out of bed and disappears for a dozen minutes. Sam changes clothes and considers coffee. He rejects the idea of going out to get some, too easy for Dean to escape if he does that. Once they’re in the Impala, all bets are off as to how well Dean will be able to shut down this conversation. 

Clearly, Dean’s thinking the same thing, because his eyes are shifty as hell when he opens the bathroom door. 

“Jeez, Sam. Stalker much?” 

He pushes past his brother but Sam turns to follow. “You’re not getting out of talking to me about this.” 

“Don’t know what you think there is to talk about.” 

“Are you kidding? Dean – you, we – I was _a kid_!” 

He can see the line of Dean’s shoulders go taught, his whole stance shift. His fists are balled. Sam narrows his eyes. 

“What’d’you want me to say, Sam? It happened. Can’t take it back.” 

“I don’t…” he sighs and drags a hand through his hair. He’s going about this the wrong way. “I don’t _blame_ you Dean, if that’s what you think. You did what you had to do. You saved my life. If it’s anyone’s fault its —” 

“Don’t bring Dad into this.” Dean’s already whirled around and Sam hadn’t said that to get a reaction but still, it had the unintentionally desired effect. 

“Dad _is_ in this. He’s the one who let me come to that house.” 

“No, no, this is _my_ fault. I’m the one who didn’t protect you when that bitch got the drop on us.” 

“You didn’t even have iron on you, Dean! Dad had the only spear. How is that your fault?” 

Dean shifts his gaze, muscle in his jaw tensing and Sam knows he can’t argue that one but he wants to. Loyal to a fault. 

“It’s my job to protect you.” 

He nods, because yeah, that's Dean. It’s always his job. The weight of the whole world is Dean Winchester’s job. 

“I just – I just need you to answer me one thing, okay? Then we can go back to pretending whatever you want me to pretend about it.” 

Dean meets his gaze and Sam can see the doubt there. Not that he can blame him, he knows he’s never dropped anything in his life, but at least it opens the possibility of a dialogue. 

“Just tell me… why didn’t I remember it until last night?” 

… 

_Sam is under him. Dad is standing over them. It’s surreal, if only because Dean’s still coming down from an amazing orgasm and his dick is still twitching inside his little brother and he’s pretty sure of nothing and everything right about then. He knows for certain that he’s well and truly screwed – he’s going to hell. You can’t fuck your little brother and like it that much and not end up in hell. And he knows without a shadow of doubt that things are never going to be the same after this._

_He wants to hold on to this moment before that all slips away, but there’s no time. His dad is barking orders and can’t even look at them. Dean doesn’t blame him. _

_They’re naked on a dusty old rug in the middle of a room full of runes and symbols. Sam’s face is streaked with sweat and tears. Dean’s neck and shoulder are gonna be purple once the bruising sets in. He swallows, and gently – as gently as he can, as gently as he went in, probably too slow but still – he pulls out._

_He winces, seeing how abused Sam’s hole looks, red and a little puffy. He stands up. _

_“You heard the man.”_

_Dean’s hauling on his clothes already. He can’t look at Sam. He hears him, sees him out of the corner of his eye, sitting up with a groan. _

_“You – ” he swallows. “You gonna be okay?”_

_“Yeah. Just – sore.”_

_“You need a doctor?” Jesus, what if he does? What will they say? Dean should’ve prepped him more, been more careful. Sam’s body’s still growing but Dean’s eighteen, he’s an adult and Sam’s tall for his age but he’s still just so – so small. So skinny and not ready and – _

_“No, I don’t think so. No blood, right?”_

_“No blood.”_

_Sam nods and makes his way to the bathroom. Dean watches his bowlegged steps with a wince. With the water running, he casts his gaze around the room, decides to leave the spear in the wall. Iron’s easy to get, at least. He grabs up his jacket and slips his gun back into the seat of his pants, leans the shotgun against the wall. As soon as Sam’s done in the bathroom, he slips in to clean up and to piss. _

_By the time he’s out, it’s almost like it never even happened. They’re both wrapped in layers of denim and flannel and there’s no way of telling just by looking. Just another stain on the rug. _

_He thumbs a vial in his pocket. _

_“Hey Sammy?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“You uh… you should take this.”_

_He almost regrets it as soon as he’s proffering it. He has no clue why his dad had it on hand, doesn’t want to ask._

_“What is it?” _

_Sam blinks up at him, still up. He’s only fourteen but he’s gonna be tall one day, probably as tall as Dean if he’s lucky. Doesn’t stop him from looking babyfaced, too young to be doing what they just did. What Dean just did to him._

_“It’ll help clear the drude toxins from your system. Dad went and grabbed it.”_

_“Oh.” _

_Sam doesn’t hesitate. He snatches it up from Dean’s hand and pops the cork without a worry. Of course he did – Dean told him to. And Dean’s never given him a reason not to trust him before. Why would that change now?_

_They make it outside before Dean throws up. It’s in the bushes over the side of the front stairs. Sam is concerned, rubs his back but Dean waves him off. Dad doesn’t even comment. Just asks Sam for an injury report and gets him to climb in the back of the Impala._

_Dean knows he’ll be asleep before they hit the road. Knows he won’t remember any of this. _

_He almost wishes he’d taken that damn witch brew for himself. But he didn’t. He couldn’t do that, not when it’s gonna spare Sam this memory. So he spits one last time and wipes his mouth and goes to join his father in the front seat._

_Sam’s snoring in the back by the time he gets there._

… 

“You _roofied_ me?! You – are you insane?!” 

Dean winces. His hangover is much, much too terrible for the volume Sam’s projecting. And that kind of accusation is gonna get management called on them if Sam doesn’t keep it down. 

“It was a potion, not a roofie, and it was Dad’s idea.” 

Sam doesn’t go back to accusing Dad for all of this shit though, which means his attention was definitely not diverted. Damn. 

“You drugged me so I wouldn’t remember you fucking me. Sounds a lot like a roofie to me, Dean.” 

He drags both hands down his face. “Okay, it was a roofie. It’s not like I gave it to you _before_ we – ” smooth, Dean, he thinks to himself. He really set himself up to just come out and say it. He’s not sure he _can _though, not aloud. “You know.” 

Great, now he feels like a coward for chickening out. 

“No, just right after, without telling me what it was.” 

“So you wouldn’t have to remember this shit, Sam! You were – you were pretty worse for wear, okay? That thing almost killed you. And I know we see a lot of crap in our job but Dad… he didn’t want you to have to go through life with _that_ hanging over you, okay? It was…” 

“Don’t you dare say it was a mercy.” 

Dean’s feeling pretty helpless here. Sam always talks circles around him. It’s impossible to win. 

“Look, if you… if you don’t wanna be around me, I… get it.” His voice gets a little dry at the end there, but he means it. He wouldn’t blame Sam. Hell, he didn’t blame him before. Missed him like hell, couldn’t stand that he wasn’t there for Dean to protect, but getting the hell out of dodge? Yeah, Dean can’t really blame him. He just can’t admit that either. 

“Dean that’s not… look, we – our childhood, things weren’t…” 

Dean glances at him. Can he afford to make a wisecrack about the great Sam Winchester being at a loss for words? No? 

“Yeah. I know.” 

“No, you don’t. We grew up – we were in each other’s pockets. We were just… we _are _just…” 

“Sam?” 

“You know what, never mind. You’re right, let’s not talk about it. You answered my question and I said I’d drop it. So that’s what we’ll do. Why don’t we just – go get some coffee and hit the road.” 

Dean’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s 99% sure this is a Trojan horse, but still. Not looking. 

They’re out of town in under twenty minutes, ACDC on, and aside from the tension radiating off Sam, he could almost pretend things are normal. 

… 

Part of Sam wishes he didn’t remember. 

He can put it in perspective now, like a missing puzzle piece. He’d thought he had a flu, that’s what Dad had told him. He’d felt like absolute crap. He couldn’t place the pain in his lower back, had got it in his head he might have a kidney problem but Dad assured him he was fine and gave him an advil. And he _had_ been fine with a bit of bed rest, and hadn’t ever thought too much of it after that. 

That was around the time he’d started getting a lot more skittish about his clothing, about dressing in front of people. He’d chalked it up, years later, to teenage embarrassment. He’d gotten a little more brazen with girls, gone from keeping his distance to having the courage to ask them out, to kiss them, and had the most wicked sense of déjà vu when he first got to second base. 

Just because the potion wiped his memory from his awareness clearly didn’t mean it had wiped it altogether. He figured it must’ve wiped his ability to _find_ the memory, to connect the dots. Either it wore down over time, or his brain had circled itself around to making a new pathway to the memory from enough arguing with Dean. 

Whatever it was, he’s torn between gratitude and regret. 

He’s glad he knows now. It fuels his need to find his dad that much stronger, if only so he can sock the man in the jaw for the sheer, absolute _gall_ of putting his kids in that situation, of letting his virgin son show up at a house where there was a monster waiting who might just end up feeding on him. 

No wonder Bobby had threatened him at gunpoint. How much else does Sam not know about, what other shit had his father had got up to, or put them through? So much is nagging at the back of Sam’s brain, now, and he knows he won’t be able to stop pouring over memories anytime soon, searching, deciphering. 

At the same time, things are weird with Dean now. Well, weirder. Because that was the thing, they’ve always _been_ weird. 

He’d tried to explain it to Dean, but couldn’t find the words. 

They’d always lived too close, too in each other’s pockets. They’d always skirted lines, ones more and less treacherous. Some of it was just Dean being an ass and Sam taking his cues from there. Dean making negligible efforts to hide his jerking off, Dean giving Sam details about his latest conquests, Dean calling Sam a bitch when he was too precious about the crusted cum he’d find on his own t-shirts on laundry day. But some of it wasn’t just that, wasn’t just teenage Sam retaliating by jerking off in the shower while Dean was trying to brush his teeth, refusing to air out the room after he’d got it all musty from a round with a girl or with himself. 

That stuff had been just them being jerks, little shits and they’d grown out of it. Other things were less easy to explain, buried in places they don’t talk about. Things like the times they had to share a bed when they were too old to do so, Sam waking up practically dry-humping Dean’s leg in his sleep, or Dean wrapped around him like an octopus with a chub nestled right up against his ass and Sam beat red because of it. No one talks about sparring boners, least of all them. Or the nights where they’d lay in separate beds and jerk off when it was quiet enough that every breath sounded loud and harsh and the slap of skin was damning in the dark. The product of too much testosterone and tight quarters and no one else allowed into their little world for more than a few transient weeks at a time. 

Sam had resigned himself to the fact that his dick was hardwired to his older brother’s nonsense before he’d even turned sixteen. He loved Dean, half-worshiped him some days (not that he’d ever admit it, but he got that now, at least), felt safe with him, and Sam had eyes – Dean was always attractive, even if Sam wasn’t really supposed to be attracted _to _him, it was hard not to notice. He’d figured some weird crush made sense with all that, with the tight quarters and things they didn’t mention. He couldn't control it, tried to suppress it and it came out in dreams of Dean laying him out on the floor, more vivid than any hastily-crushed imaginings until he'd stopped trying to pretend it wasn't there. It had been a source of angst no deeper than any other – just another weird, fucked up thing about Sam Winchester that he’d never acknowledge in the light of day, and didn’t really matter anyway in the grand scheme of things. 

But now he wonders, and he hates that he wonders … was it because of the drude? Because of the formative experience? Was it there before? 

He thinks it was: something had been. 

He'd thought it stopped had mattering a long time ago, the ifs and whens of it all. (If he was honest, recently it felt like everything had stopped mattering except finding Yellow Eyes and Dad. Inappropriate casual lust for his flirt of an older brother didn’t make the list of priorities even when Dean was slapping his ass and pretending to be his boyfriend at open house viewings in the suburbs). 

But now… now he knows he’s actually had sex with Dean. That some of those dreams were basically rose-tinted memories of being laid out on the floor by him. He’d tasted Dean’s mouth, and the other man had led it, pushed it, pushed into him. 

Now he knows he’d had it, and if he’s honest, he kind of liked it. 

… 

Things stay weird on the next hunt, which isn’t great because Dean’s off his game and gets electrocuted. They have to take a detour and Sam sets him up with a faith healer and the whole thing is bullshit until the Reapers enter the picture and now he’s got to live with someone innocent person’s death on his conscience. 

The only good thing to come of it, he thinks, is that all that danger and fear made it easier for Sam to stop being weird and get back to normal. 

Right after the revelation, Sam had been so obviously trying to make things not weird that he made them weirder. He would carefully make sure not to hide away when he changed in the morning or evening, as if changing in the same room was the problem they needed to solve. He'd hesitate to put his hand on Dean’s shoulder or punch him in the arm just a second before following through, like he was daring himself to do it. And he kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, too evaluating. Dean ground his teeth each time, turned up the music if they were in the car. 

Dean had tried to ignore it, but that was impossible. Then he got injured and Sam got worried and all that went out the window with the reminder that they were brothers thick and thin, that they needed each other. That and the reminder of the lengths Sam would go to for him. Maybe he didn't want it, maybe he didn’t ask, but he’s alive and not alone and that’s thanks to Sam. 

So things are edging toward easy again. Which is good, because he’s not sure what the hell he’d do with himself if Sam suddenly couldn’t stand the sight of him after finding out the truth of that memory. Suck it up, keep calm and carry on, sure. But it would still suck, just as much as losing him to Stanford did. Maybe more, because this time it really would be his own damn fault. 

No, he appreciates now how hard Sam was trying to make things normal (even if they weren’t), and he _gets_ it, but he still wishes that ignoring it meant actually ignoring it, and not just pretending to ignore it while obviously thinking about it 24/7. 

He sighs, puts it out of his mind because things are easy again and they’ve got a job waiting, another tip off from one of Sam’s nightmares, and finishes gassing up Baby, a lot of miles behind them and more to go before they sleep. 

“Got you some twizzlers.” 

“Awesome,” Dean actually grins. “We paid up?” 

“Good to go.” 

They slide into their respective sides of the car. 

“I was thinking...” 

“Never a good idea, Sammy.” 

He snorts and passes the twizzlers Dean’s way. “How about we stop here for the night? It’s almost dark and there’s no point trying to get there tonight. Michigan’s not going anywhere.” 

Dean raises his eyebrows at him. “What happened to Mr. My-Visions-Are-Real-And-We-Can't-Dilly-Dally?” 

Sam rolls his eyes and Dean ends up surprised that he dignifies it with a response. “We’ve got 6 hours of road left between here and this job, and I’d rather do them during the daylight when we’re less likely to careen to our deaths thanks to a deer.” 

“I wouldn’t hit a deer.” 

“You’ve almost hit several deers.” 

“Not this month.” 

“Forget I said anything.” 

Dean sighs and pulls out of the gas station and into the adjoining parking lot, the flickering neon of the closest motel. He ignores Sam’s surprised look when he gets out of the car. It doesn’t take long to get a room and Sam’s already got their bags. 

“I’ll go find us some grub?” Dean offers, since he’s trying this whole ‘be nice’ thing. 

“Why don’t we grab some together? A beer, maybe hustle some pool?” 

Okay, now he knows it’s a trap. He’s just not sure how. Is this more of Sam pretending really hard to act normal when things are in fact weird as hell, or is this a setup more intentional than that? 

“What?” 

“Since when do you like to drink beer or hustle pool?” 

“I’m not that much of a wet blanket. Did you forget I know how to play almost as well as you?” 

“Mm, these are your college-boy friends, Sammy, ‘n I’ve had a lot of practice since the last time you played me.” 

Sam scoffs. “Then ante up.” He’s already heading for the door, a little grin catching at the corners of his lips. “Ten bucks says I’ve still got it.” 

Dean laughs and follows, “in your dreams.” 

It’s going great, and over beer number three, he actually manages to start relaxing. The food was a good idea. The game of pool was an even better one. Sam actually is pretty good at it still, and Dean’s devising ways for them to use this. It’s so much easier to hustle with two people, one to pretend to take the fall (which will, of course, be him) then turn around and go double on the next person who comes up and thinks he can win. Then (again, this will be him), the apparent ‘loser’ will wipe the floor with the mark. 

He grins, planning it out. He’s better than Sam, wins the game, but it’s by the skin of his teeth. 

“Ten bucks.” 

“Yeah yeah.” 

It’s not like they don’t share everything, including funds, but Sam hands him the ten all the same. 

“Next beer’s on you,” Sam gripes good-naturedly. Dean’s feeling good enough to oblige, gets them another round. By the time they leave, they’ve managed to score enough from a couple of marks to cover their room and dinner for the night, gas for the next day. It was a good night, and honest to god fun, so when he flops back into the motel room and lands on the couch, his defenses are all pretty much at zero. 

“There’s just more one thing that’s been bugging me,” Sam’s voice echoes out from the bathroom, just finished brushing those pearly whites of his. Dean glances over the back of the couch at the total non-sequitur as he comes back into the main space of their room. 

“Huh?” 

“About that night, with the drude. I’ve been putting it all together in my head, and the one piece that doesn’t fit is what I was even doing there. Why did you come pick me up at the library?” 

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Goddamn but Sam had promised to let this shit drop. It’s been weeks since he brought it up and it tastes like betrayal that he lulled Dean into this false sense of security over it, let him finally think things were good only to revisit it. 

“Does it matter?” 

“It just doesn’t make any sense. Why bring a virgin to a drude’s stomping grounds? Unless...” 

“Unless?” Dean prompts, scowling. 

“Unless it was part of Dad’s plan.” 

Too smart for his own good. He’d never _told_ Sam the plan when he picked him up, was instructed not to until Sam was in position, and then it had all gone to shit and had stopped mattering. 

“So what if it was? S’not like he planned for you to get infected, you were supposed to be safe inside that warded room. Like I said, I wasn’t fast enough to hold her off when she got the drop on me.” 

There’s silence. Dean looks at Sam and almost does a double-take. Sam’s face is dark and angry, his shoulders tense. It’s more than his brooding thing, he looks pissed and like he’s fighting to hold it back. There’s shock there too, like he had expected Dean to disagree. 

“Sam?” 

“You’re saying his actual plan,” Sam’s voice is low with anger, “Dad’s actual _intent_ was to get me there? As what – bait? He made you bring me to that house knowing the drude was there, knowing she would find me?” 

Dean’s already on his feet, couch between them. “Sam, whoa, I said he didn’t plan for you to get taken, he - ” 

“Do you - ” It's almost shouted and he pauses, pulls in a breath, looks like he’s trying to control it but his fists are shaking in balls at his sides. His voice is lower again when he continues. “Do you know how to kill a drude?” 

Is that a trick question? “With iron.” 

Sam shakes his head, just once, terse. “Not what I meant. I did the research, remember? You never thought it was too convenient, that the drude got the drop on me, that Dad just happened to have a roofie on hand, that he had a fresh bottle of lube that you’d need in order to fuck me?” 

Dean recoils. “No man, _no_. Dad didn’t _plan_ for me to rape you.” 

Sam looks to the side, his jaw muscle tensing. Dean moves around the couch, voice lowering a little, trying to get Sam to see reason. 

“He wouldn’t do that. We protect you, Sam. Dad wouldn’t - ” 

“He did.” 

“He didn’t - ” 

“He did!” Sam faces him and shouts and takes a step forward, angry as Dean’s ever seen him. “He did, Dean. Because a drude can only be killed within a day of feeding because that’s the only time she’s corporeal enough. And the one _we_ were hunting hadn’t killed in over a week, remember? So yeah, Dean – Dad planned it out. He got the supplies you’d need and he fed you a lie just close enough to the truth so that you’d be willing to swallow it, and then he played us both like fiddles. He let her take me – probably flushed her down the stairs toward me as soon as he heard us pull up – and made you bang me on that musty carpet just so he could kill one more monster.” 

Dean’s shaking his head. There’s no way it’s true. Dad would never, _ever_ do that to Sam. He wouldn’t. And to use Dean like – what if Dean had said _no_? Not that he would, and Dad would know that. Dean would never let anyone else do that to - 

“You’re wrong.” 

“Is it really so hard to believe?” 

“He was pissed, Sam. He was freaking out. He warded that room and you were supposed to sit inside it and she was supposed to - ” 

“To _what_? If it was warded properly she wouldn’t be able to get _in_, Dean! The same as she couldn’t get out. I read the lore; she’d need a host to bring her in.” 

His stomach drops. It can’t be true. It really, freaking can’t be. 

“Dad...” the denial dies on his tongue. 

“Yeah. Tell me about it.” 

Dean feels sick. Neither of them have anything else to say after that and they get ready for bed in silence. Dean doesn’t sleep and he doubts Sam does either. 

… 

They destroy a racist truck, Dean gets his mojo back (thanks very much, Cassie – he's feeling a lot less like a creep and a lot more in his own skin again) and other than Sam’s freaky deaky visions, he thinks things are getting back to normal. 

Which of course means Sam has to fuck it up. 

“Stacey Goldman.” 

It’s a complete non-sequitur. They’re on the road, Dean’s driving, the radio’s on low, and Sam opens with that. Dean glances at him, confused. The name rings a bell somewhere in the back of his brain. 

“What?” 

“That’s who I thought I lost my virginity to. Her name was Stacey Goldman.” 

Dean’s jaw clicks shut. Right. She was a cute redhead with freckles and a wicked streak. Dean liked her more than most of the girls Sam went steady with during their short sojourns in different towns. He remembers sliding a beer across to Sam later that night, after Stacey had gone home, and toasting to the loss of his v-card. Sam had called him an ass and he’d given him a noogie, flush with pride. 

The memory draws a smile for a half-second. Then the rest of it catches up, the way Sam worded that, the tone of his voice, and reality kicks back in. 

“I get that you’re still processing or whatever, but can we not suckerpunch the driver, Sam?” 

Sam huffs and it’s almost a laugh. Win for Dean. 

“I just – I am. Processing, I mean. I’m putting pieces together of things that never clicked before and it’s - it’s weird, Dean. And I’m mostly – I'm most of the way there. Except I’m trying really hard not to feel betrayed that you never told me sooner. Not right away, I get it, but sometime.” 

His lips purse and he stares at the horizon. What’s he supposed to say to that? 

“I know you and Dad think it was a mercy to make me forget, but it really _wasn’t_, Dean. And somewhere along the way, it would have helped a lot if you’d manned up and told me. Even if you had to wait until I slept with someone else, till I grew up or, shit, even if you put it aside till recently when I got back in, I would’ve - ” 

“Would’ve _what_, Sam?” There it is, his own anger. He hits the breaks hard and pulls over to the side before he causes an accident because he hasn’t paid attention to the road in miles. He turns in his seat, lets himself be pissed too. “C’mon, what the hell was I supposed to say? Sit you down one day over a beer and go ‘hey so I know our lives are fucked, our mother is dead and our Dad’s gone, but you wanna know what’s even more pathetic than that? I fucking _roofied_ you.’ Christ, Sam, you already left once, you think I wanted to scare you away again?” 

Sam’s eyebrows climb into that mess of a hairline of his. He has the gall to look offended. “You thought I would _leave_? Over something that happened years ago, that you had no control over?” 

“No control – Sam I was the one who - ” he can’t even finish it. He doesn’t need to, Sam gets it. But Sam’s recoiling a little, shaking his head like Dean’s got it twisted somehow and he knows he doesn’t. 

“Dean it wasn’t your _fault_.” 

“I brought you to that house!” 

“On Dad’s orders! Did you forget that he orchestrated the whole damn thing?” 

He didn’t, and he seethes, air hot as it comes out of his lung through both nostrils. He slams the door behind him when he gets out, wishes the air were cooler, wishes it could cool him down. He hears Sam’s door slam too. 

“Dean - ” 

He holds up a hand then turns. Might as well give Sam the fight he’s been angling for. 

“I’m supposed to protect you, Sam – _me. _That includes from Dad if it has to. I didn’t know the lore, I didn’t question the order, I brought you to that house, and _I’m _the one who raped you. I’m the one who _liked _it! The one who got off inside his baby brother even while you were passing out in pain so don’t you dare think for one second I deserve to be absolved! I handed you that potion and slept better for it because I was _convinced_ you’d never remember what I did to you and I didn’t - and I mean this – I didn’t have any intention of ever letting you find out. So yeah, Sammy – it is my fault. It’s all my damn fault.” 

Sam’s quiet for a long time. Dean turns away, has to, because he said exactly as much as he needed to but way too damn much to ever take back. His eyes are stinging and his throat fucking _hurts_ from the weight of all the words he’s holding back. 

“Dean.” Sam’s voice sounds so tired. Dean shakes his head. “Dean. It’s not your fault.” 

“Yeah.” His own is worse. “It is.” 

“I know... I know this isn’t gonna jive with your worldview, but I just gotta throw it out there. Have you ever considered that you were raped too, that day?” 

He tenses. His mind feels like fuzz, senseless and abstract. It doesn’t make any damn sense, but he feels like Sam is angling for something. After a minute, he shakes his head, minutely. 

“Can’t rape the willing, Sam.” 

“I don’t think you understand rape all that well. You can’t consent with a gun to your head, or to your brother’s, I guess.” 

He feels a tear fall, then another. No way is he looking back at Sam right now. _I don’t think you understand how much I liked it._

“Are we done here?” 

“Sure.” 

Sam gives him a minute, and when he’s got some composure back, he slides into the driver’s seat and pulls back out. The rest of the drive is silent. 

… 

When humans turn evil, it’s worse than ghosts and monsters. The Bender family are twisted as hell, and Sam and Dean both have wounds to lick when they stagger out of there, hurt and a little messed up over it. 

Sam stitches him up in their motel room, Dean refusing the hospital. Clean the wound, disinfect, stitch, disinfect. The alcohol burns and he hisses and clutches the sheets but lets Sam work. His hands are steady, a lifetime of experience behind him. 

Dean takes a third shot straight from the bottle. Sam catches it from his lips. 

“That’s enough of that. Don’t thin your blood so much, you were kinda stabbed.” 

“Not kinda,” Dean mutters. It’s not life threatening, he’s had worse, but it still hurt like a bitch even with the advil he’d swallowed with the first shot. 

“Humans.” 

Dean echoes it in acknowledgement, watches Sam’s throat work as he swallows a shot of his own, also straight from the bottle. 

He finishes bandaging the wound. His hands fan out across Dean’s skin, warm but so is Dean, comforting but not really necessary. Dean doesn’t comment. Sam doesn’t move back. 

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’ve gotta...” Sam licks his lips, nervous-like, and Dean’s gaze shoots up to his eyes but Sam’s looking away. His fingers flex on Dean’s skin, unconscious. 

“Seriously? Right now?” 

Sam sighs and looks down. “I’ll talk. You don’t have to. I just – I didn’t know what to say last time and you obviously weren’t looking for a conversation, thought you’d punch me if I pushed it, but being in that cage in the Benders’ house made me realize that if I died and didn’t tell you, you’d probably stay guilty about this for the rest of your life.” 

“Wouldn’t let you die, Sam.” 

Sam’s lips quirk. Dean doesn’t like how skeptical it is, how he’s glancing out across their room again. Dean leans up on his elbows. 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know, but in this line of work... the point is, Dean, we leave a lot unsaid and I don’t want this to be one of those things.” 

Dean hates this. His throat feels like it’s burning. He’s pretty sure Sam left his hands on him half so Dean wouldn’t barge out of the room. It’s impossible to get up and move when Sam’s hands are just so soft and careful on his skin, a presence holding him in place better than any rope or chain ever could. 

“So look – you said it’s your fault, because you were supposed to protect me, and you said it’s not rape because you liked it. So I need you to know – it's not your fault you got played, and you’re not the only one who liked it.” 

He says the last part in a rush, voice steady but not pausing for a breath. Dean’s throat clicks. He tries to push words out, but none come, and he’s not sure what they would be if they did. Sam’s hands flex again on his skin, more deliberate and Dean realizes he pushed up into them, tensed under them, fight and flight activated. 

“I just – you got off but you had to. And yeah I was passing out but I was hard too, and I was glad – I was glad it was you.” Sam’s cheeks are burning. Dean hasn’t seen him blush since he was – hell, since he was fourteen. “I know that’s messed up and everything, but if I had to lose it to a guy, I'd pick you first every time. You were – you didn’t hurt me. I mean – it hurt, but you didn’t...” 

He licks his lips again and Dean’s eyes track it. His heart feels like it’s gonna hammer out of his chest, breath coming in too shallow. 

“You were good, you felt good and I – I was pissed it was happening like that and I’m still pissed about the roofie but if you can’t rape the willing then we’re in the same boat, okay? So whatever you wanna call it, rape or not, we’re in the exact same boat so you don’t get to feel any more guilty about it then I do, ‘kay?” 

He lets out a strained breath through his mouth. Jesus fucking Christ. He’s not gonna goddamn tear up, he’s not. He swallows and looks away, hardens his jaw to it, inhales. He’s good. He’s good. 

“Okay.” He clears his throat. “Are we done talking about it yet?” 

Sam retracts his hands with a quiet, half-forced laugh. “Yeah. Okay.” 

… 

Sam doesn’t get the chance to kick his dad’s ass about it even though he wants to. The daevas that the demon Meg summoned get there first and it turns out she’s after their dad and not them, like that doesn’t rankle. 

Dad won’t go with them – thinks he’s gotta protect them all by staying apart. Sam wants to argue, _does_ argue, but his opinion’s never held any weight in this family and it’s not a democracy, even if Sam was the one to save all their asses. All Dad promises is that they’ll see each other soon and take down Yellow-Eyes together and Sam has to watch as he drives off into the distance in a shitty truck. 

He honestly doesn’t even remember to punch the old man and demand an explanation about the drude until they’re a hundred miles out of the city and the adrenaline-fear-anger of the fight with Meg and the devas is starting to wear off. Then it slams to the front of his mind like a sledgehammer opening up a watermelon. 

“Motherfucker.” 

Dean glances over from the driver’s side. It's the first either of them has spoken since leaving the devas in the rearview, no radio or cassette in. 

“I forgot to tear him a new one about the drude.” 

Dean tenses for a second, then shakes his head and sighs. “Not like there was time, Sammy. Bigger fish to fry, what with almost getting our bacon all fried.” 

Talk about mixed metaphors. Sam shakes his head. “Still.” 

“What - you wanna fight devas over a casual conversation about the time you lost your v-card with a dash of incest thrown in? ‘Oh hey Dad about that time you stood in the next room and listened to your kids fuck, did you plan that awkward little family outing or are we all just really that unlucky?’” 

He makes it sound funny. Dean can make anything sound funny. Sam’s been trying his whole life to perfect the ability not to find humor in the things Dean makes light of, not to let his lips quirk into a grin when he’s pissed still but Dean’s decided to thrown his charm around. 

“Dean.” 

He rolls his eyes over to Sam, exaggerated. “Yeah, let’s share that one with the demons on our trail. C’mon Sammy. Bigger fish. Let it go.” 

He wishes he could. He doesn’t comment and they finally stop five hours out of Chicago and isolated enough they’re sure nothing’s on their tail. They clean the scratches the daevas left, bandaging their faces and cuts. It’ll be a week or two before Sam’s cuts go down enough to interview witnesses on cases, and he expects they’re going to be on the road for most of that time, circling, keeping Meg off their trail if they’re able to, if she’s alive still after the daevas turned on her. Demons are a bitch to kill, after all. 

They settle into the Impala for a bit of shut eye, Sam in the back and Dean in the front. Neither of them are really close to sleeping, keyed up and twitchy. Dean’s hand is drumming on the back of the bench, humming _Stairway to Heaven_. Sam’s trying to even his breathing. 

“D’you really wanna... you seriously plan to go back to Stanford?” Dean asks sometime around 4am. Sam suspects they’re just waiting on a bit of daylight to get back on the road at this point, to find an open motel and bunker down properly somewhere less exposed. 

He chews the inside of his lip. He could pretend he’s still asleep, but that’s the type of shit Dean would pull and Sam’s worked hard on learning to be less of a dick while he was away at college, found out that communication doesn’t have to feel like pulling teeth all the time. 

“I just... wanna have a life, Dean. I was in my final semester. I had a plan, goals. And maybe that’s all a mess now and maybe more school, _law _school, isn’t the answer anymore. I wanna help people still, but burning ghosts and ganking wendigos isn’t the only way to do that and I...” 

“And you...?” Dean asks after silent minutes. Sam’s train of thought has spiraled and he tries to put it in linear order, to find a way to make it make sense outside of his own head. 

“If I went that far, only to snap back into all this – what was it for? What did Jess... die for?” It’s not the right words and it leaves his chest feeling hollow and his eyes feeling hot but - 

“You think hitting the books is the best way to honor her memory? Going back to pretending things are apple pie?” 

“Not until Yellow-Eyes is dead.” 

Sam closes his eyes, strains his ears to pick up the cadence of Dean’s breathing. He can’t really hear it, Dean must be quiet, careful. 

“I don't get... why you’re so obsessed with living normal. With not being a hunter.” 

Because being a hunter’s a death sentence. Because being a hunter means cold nights in a car and miserable stinging wounds and a life of loneliness and isolation. Because being a hunter means getting fucked by your brother and lied to about it because nothing’s ever really in your control. 

He can’t say any of that though, not to Dean. 

“Jess used to... this guy Brady introduced us. I thought she was the most beautiful person in the world. I wanted to _give _her the world. You weren’t totally wrong – she was way, way out of my league. And she would laugh but not like, judgmental, just more confused when I’d let something slip. I mentioned I lost track of how many towns we lived in by the time I was ten and she shook her head. She celebrated my SAT score and didn’t call me an egghead when I told her. She uh... she obviously thought it was freaking weird that I owned a gun and kept an industrial sized bag of salt in the house after we moved in together but didn’t say anything.” 

Dean makes a noise for him to keep going when Sam fades away. He picks up the thread. 

“She made me feel more normal than anyone ever had. Anyone but you, I mean. She kinda reminded me of you, sometimes. She had this... mischief, little streak of danger, and uh – she had the same birthday as you. Can you believe it?” 

Dean shifts somehow in the front seat. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. He closes his eyes in memory, her 21st birthday, the wink at him as she blew out the candles on a double chocolate cake. He knew exactly how much fun he had in store that night. 

“She’d smile this way that almost pretended at shy but definitely wasn’t, was full of mischief and it – it was always directed my way. Our uh, our first time... she thought I was gonna be nervous. Y’know how you always call me a nerd? She definitely thought I would be one, all fumbling and shy in bed.” He laughs, remembering. Her eyes had went wide and delighted the first time he’d taken off his hoodie, and then his tee. “She was wrong. Hadn’t been nervous around a girl since I was sixteen.” 

“You play up that doe-eyed bashful thing real well.” Dean’s voice is a little raspy. Sam shifts in his seat too, legs falling open a bit more. 

“She thought so.” 

“She uh – she adventurous?” 

Sam’s insides squirm and he tries to decide if it’s pleasant or unpleasant. He's not sure he should be talking to Dean about this, not sure if he can talk about anything else now that he’s started. 

“You saw her. Whad’you think? She was confident, practically fearless. Definitely… ” 

“Definitely?” 

Sam swallows. He’s starting to chub up at the memory, at the combination of that and Dean’s voice, still raspy (raspier?), all the shit that’s been between them recently. 

“Definitely knew what she liked. Didn’t mind telling me so. The way she...” It swims up behind his eyes, her hips in his hands, her leaning over him, hair tickling his bare chest, just the scrap of her panties keeping them separated. _I want to sit on your face_. “She took what she wanted. God – she was gorgeous, Dean. She tasted - ” 

There’s a line in here somewhere and he’s flirting with it, crossing it, hopping over and back and pretending it’s not there when it is. It’s not the first time, but it is the first time in years, first time since Stanford, since finding out. His cock doesn’t seem to care, full and hard now and he presses the heel of his hand to it. 

“How’d she taste?” 

And that’s definitely a sex voice. He’s heard Dean’s enough times to know. 

“Incredible. I couldn’t get enough.” 

He hears Dean shift again, the creak of leather. His ears perk when he hears a zipper too. Shit. He inhales, sharp, and the sound stops for a moment. Sam scrambles to undo his pants too, hears Dean sigh (in relief?) and his movements resume. 

“You go down often?” It’s getting lascivious. He's using the memory of Jess to get off with Dean. But fuck if he can help it, can help but want to remember, can help but crave this at the same time. 

“Often as she’d let me. She’d claw at my hair. One time I – she got off seven times. Started in the kitchen, on my knees right after I got home from an exam, horny as hell because I’d been so focused on studying I forgot to jerk it, no sex all week.” 

Dean laughs and it’s strained. Sam can hear his hand start up, the wet sounds of it. He swallows hard and licks his own hand, gets it good and wet and starts to tug at himself. 

“Tell me,” Dean doesn’t beg but it’s too desperate to be a command. Sam obliges anyway. 

“She was wearing an apron and a cute dress that drove me wild, short on her thighs so her ass almost peaked out when she bent over. Cheeky as hell, she loved to rile me up in it. She was in the kitchen when I got in, about to cook a celebration dinner, exams all done, and I walked in the door, pressed up behind her to give her a kiss and couldn’t keep my hands to myself.” He hears Dean’s hand pick up, his breathing getting heavy. “Couldn’t stop kissing her neck, started to chub up just rocking against her in the kitchen. She liked that – pressed back into me. Thought I was going to explode but I wanted - ” 

God, he’s gotta slow down or this is gonna be over way too fast. 

“Tell me what you wanted, Sammy.” 

_Fuck_. His voice is rough when he keeps talking, hand firmer around himself, thumb stroking the tip where he’s dribbling. “Wanted to make her scream, to get her all worn out then get inside that only after she could barely take anymore.” He hears the whispered curse but doesn’t stop. “Spun her around and took off her panties and got her off with my tongue right there pressed to the counter. Then I lifted her up and made it most of the way to the bedroom but I – she was lifted on my shoulders, not my waist, and I pressed her to a wall and got her off again, clutching my hair and riding my face and holding the ceiling.” 

“_Jesus.._” 

Dean sounds like he’s right on the edge. Sam’s way too far gone to think about stopping now. “Laid her out on the bed and fucked her with my fingers till she damn near cried,” his dick is throbbing in his hand, his breathing’s picking up, “she came two more times on my fingers, wrung out. Then I turned her over and finally slid in. She was...” 

“Tight?” 

“So tight, still clenching from her last orgasm. I just drilled in. She was still in that dress,” he breathes, remembers he’s gotta paint the picture for Dean and delights in the sound of his brother’s moan. “Soaking and clawing at the sheets and feral.” 

“Tits?” 

Sam feels his balls tensing up. “Got my hands up there, teasing them, pulling – she came again while I was doing it.” 

“’_Close_,” Dean whispers, hand speeding up. Sam can hear it, inhales, speeds up his own. 

“Her ass was so fucking pretty, Dean. Used all that extra wet and played with it.” 

“Fuck, Sam, _fuck _\- “ 

Sam’s on edge, gasping. “Teased her first, pushing at that rim ‘n - got two fingers, wet and tight and – _fuck, Dean – _she was so hot inside, could feel where my dick was fucking her, feel it like I was sharing her with - ” 

He can’t say it, can’t fucking say it but he doesn’t need to because Dean groans and Sam follows, tipped over the edge. Everything goes white and he lets out a deep sound from his chest, wrecked as his dick pulses in his hand, spilling everywhere. It’s wet and sloppy and the most satiating thing he can imagine, frizzing out each synapse down to the roots of his hair, letting out all the tension the whole fucked up day has built up in him. 

He comes down slow, easy, a mess but suddenly exhausted. There’s a sound in the front seat and then the towel they keep in the glove compartment hits him in the chest. He huffs but cleans himself up. 

“Gonna catch a couple hours.” 

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, halfway asleep already, doing up his pants. “Me too.” 

… 

A case with a shtriga is enough to set him reeling again. 

Dean’s the one to bring it up this time, nursing his second beer of the evening and wishing he could stop seeing the shtriga sucking on Sam every time he closes his eyes. He wishes it didn’t keep transforming into the drude in his memories. 

“Man - what is with you and monsters?” 

Sam’s on the couch next to him, legs splayed, both of them listless and tired, Wisconsin a day behind them but still on their minds. They’re supposed to be watching a movie but the volume’s on low and Dean couldn’t tell you what it was called if he tried. 

“Huh?” 

“I mean the – the visions, or nightmares or whatever, the shtriga, the fucking drude. _Meg_. What is it that just makes evil shit wanna eat you up?” 

Sam snorts, but Dean’s half-lidded eyes are open now to watch his brother, playing with the label on his beer. “Wish I knew. But hey – the drude’s not on me. That’s all Dad, remember?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Should’ve lost your v-card at thirteen like I did.” 

“Your sexual history is horrifying, you know that right?” 

“Yeah yeah.” It’s easy, brotherly. They’re at the point where they can joke about it, kinda sorta, and that’s good enough as far as he’s concerned. 

“You ever think...” Sam starts, then stops. Dean rolls his eyes to the bland, wood-patterned ceiling. The beer was cheap, on sale and not his favorite, too watery. “You ever wonder if the whole thing with the drude messed us up a bit?” 

He snorts and rolls his gaze back down to earth, sips the watery drink anyway. “Not sure how it could’ve messed you up too bad, what with the roofie.” 

“Yeah but that’s what I – I feel like it was always there, even if it was out of sight. Maybe if it had been an _actual_ roofie and not a potion but...” Sam shakes his floppy hair. Dean’s fingers twitch, thinking about the scissors in his bag, the way he used to cut it for his little brother when he decided he hated the clippers. 

“What’re you saying, Sam?” His voice is tight and he knows just why. Sam’s implying something – something bad, like Dean hurt him, like what they did to protect him didn’t _work_ and just the suggestion of it has his hackles raising. 

“Don’t - don’t be a dick, Dean. I just mean – you know, like what we did in the car.” 

It takes a second and then it clicks. Suddenly his beer is the most interesting, tasteful thing in the world. He doesn’t stop gulping till it’s empty, aims to stand to grab out another, shut down this conversation. 

“Dean - hey, Dean.” 

Great, Sam’s following. 

“We don’t talk about that shit, Sam.” 

“That’s exactly what I mean! We grew up – _I_ grew up – getting off to the soundtrack of you getting off. I know you know I couldn’t spar with you from fourteen to seventeen without springing up - 

“Goddammit, Sam, it’s in the past.” He uses the edge of the table to crack off the lid instead of using the beer opener he keeps on his keychain. The cool bottle in hand is almost enough to soothe. 

“Is it? Dean, we rubbed one out together just last month. That’s not that far in the past.” 

He closes his eyes, counts to three. It never works, but he still tries. Maybe one day. 

“What the hell d’you want me to say, man? It’s just like porn – put on a show, get off, and don’t talk about it. I gave you my old skin mags when you were growing up, don’t see how jerking it in the same room is all that different when we’ve got nowhere else to go. Doesn’t mean a damn thing.” 

“I’m not saying it _does_, Dean. I’m not saying you violated me or that having sex together ruined me for life, so would you cool it?” 

Dean does, presses the bottle against the side of his neck and cheek. It’s soothing. He’s trying to follow the Sam train around this conversation but so far it’s a disaster. _Having sex together ruined me_. That’s not what he’s saying, not. _Having sex together_. Dean's never gonna be able to get those words out of his head. 

“So what are you saying?” he has to ask, finally. 

“I’m saying... I'm saying it – I'm saying we grew up sideways. Yeah, yeah I know we know that but about this, I mean. I’m saying I... the shtriga had an effect, long term and we never really acknowledged that. It made you feel even more protective, made you feel guilty every time you took your eyes off me. I never understood why you acted like protecting me was a duty that if you shirked the world would end but now I get it. And knowing about the drude put that in place too.” 

“Put what in place?” His voice is too high. Did he give himself away, somehow – that he can’t help but look too long sometimes, that he noticed when Sam filled out even though he shouldn’t, that he liked it when Sam was way too old to rock up against him in his sleep but Dean never once put a stop to it? He’s fucked up but he never wanted Sam to realize that Dean gets hot for his little brother sometimes. 

“Put my... my weird teenage crush on you in place. That’s what I mean. I mean – I'm not talking butterflies in my stomach, you’re my annoying asshole of an older brother. I just mean, some days it’s like you have a direct line to my dick and that used to freak me out a lot, and I think some of that was always gonna be a little jumbled up because of how we grew up, way too close and I remember being thirteen and feeling weird about all of it so it didn’t start there but – but I think it was part of it. Part of why I couldn’t shake it, and now I don’t feel so messed up about all the shit we pretend doesn’t happen.” 

There’s a beat. Dean can’t help it. “Sam, are you saying you wanna get all up in this?” It’s deadpan. Sam’s eyes go wide. Dean continues, lets the leer into his voice. “Because doll I’m not sure you’re tall enough to ride this pony.” 

Sam rolls his eyes on cue, punches Dean’s arm and he chokes on his swallow of his beer but it’s worth it. He takes another pull to make up for it, grins around the bottle. It gives him the minute he needs to get his head on straight. 

“Yeah, okay we’re a little messed up,” he continues. “That’s nothing new. Doesn’t have to mean anything, not sure why it’s suddenly worth talking about.” 

If he’s a little uncomfortable, he thinks he’s managing it well. Before college Sam was more open than him or Dad about feelings, but it’s nothing on his newfound need to put every emotion under a microscope. 

“I’m just - I just want to quantify it. Get on the same page about it. Want you to know I won’t run for the hills if we watch porn together – not that I want to.” His nose wrinkles, “I’m pretty sure your taste in porn is all triple _Ds_ and cartoon fetish. But I mean – I don’t feel so weird about us laying down in the Impala to rub one out together anymore, y’know? Or in the next bed. Hell, I don’t think I’d feel that weird if we got drunk and made out and I just - ” 

“Whoa there, Sammy,” Dean’s caught between laughing and choking. “No drunk make outs, little brother. There’s a line and on that side of it is a land called Incest.” 

Sam rolls his eyes, this time not on cue. “Pretty sure we bowled right over that line when you put your dick in my ass.” 

The thing about Sam being crass is that it’s rare enough it always shocks everyone, Dean included. The dry way he drops shit like that is enough to leave him scrambling, gives Sam the opening to continue. 

“Point is – I'm done feeling bad about it. You’re my brother and I love you and sometimes get off kinda with you and one time had sex with you and yeah, we don’t talk about it, but I kinda like it.” 

There’s a long pause. Sam’s shoulders are squared and it takes Dean, leaning against the table and feeling like he’s swimming through mud, out of his depth, to realize that Sam’s just bared a lot of shit and he’s waiting for Dean to – to do what? Something. Something like take a swing, probably. He’s too exhausted for that. Too raw still from the shtriga to even consider it, much as maybe he’d go there some other time if Sam was dredging this all up from the depths. 

“Yeah. Okay.” He says. Sam’s eyes get hesitant. Dean hates putting that expression on his face. “You’re my brother and I love you too. And sometimes we kinda sorta rub one out together and I’m still pretty sure it doesn’t have to mean anything, but I kinda like it too. Makes me feel... closer to you, man.” He fiddles with the label on his still-full beer, mimicking Sam from earlier. “Not about to give you any undying love confessions and can’t say I spent my teen years all lusty over your pimply ass.” 

Sam snorts. Dean smiles. 

“But I probably liked the attention a little more’n I should. Liked making you feel good, letting you rut up against me, liked how you feel under me. Liked that I...” aw shit, he really wasn’t supposed to say this next part. “Liked that I was first.” 

He can hear Sam swallow. “Right, yeah. So we’re on the same page?” 

“Guess so? That about clear the air for you?” 

“Guess so.” 

He nods and they go back to the couch, polish off the sixpack, and slip into separate beds. He rubs his dick in time to Sam’s breathing across the room, gets off to the sound of his harsh, bitten off and needy noises as he strips himself, blankets thrown off and skin showing in the moonlight. Not that Dean’s looking. 

… 

“I didn't bring it up.” 

Dean’s exhausted. Killing vamps is hard work – chopping off heads, running for their lives, saving Dad, getting that Colt. He was giddy and almost jello with relief when Dad agreed they’d hunt Yellow-Eyes together. They’ve got a gun that can freaking _kill_ that Demon. No exorcisms, this is the real deal. 

But first, he deserves sleep. He's a good person. A good, exhausted person, laid out spread eagle on his shitty motel bed, roomed with Sam while Dad’s next door. 

“What?” he says intelligently. 

“The drude thing. I didn’t bring it up.” 

Oh. Oh shit, right. Dean leans up on his elbows, staring at Sam across the room where he’s getting ready to shower. 

“I was going to – wanted to. But then we started talking and I... I just didn’t want to go there. Not today, y’know?” 

Boy does he ever. He’s pretty sure he never wants to go there, including right now. “Good, Sammy. That’s... good.” 

Sam throws him a look, almost amused and almost apologetic. It mostly comes out tired. “I - I thought about something else. Something else related to what you said before.” 

Back to talking about it. Dean wishes they wouldn’t. “I’m freaking tired, man. Can’t we give the chick flick moments a rest?” 

“I just – Rachel.” 

Dean shakes his head, not following. 

“My prom date.” 

Oh. _Oh_. He looks away, willing himself not to give in to any misbegotten guilt or enjoyment at the memory. Sam sits on the edge of his bed. 

“The one that you slept with.” 

“Yeah yeah, I remember.” He sits up. If they’re doing this, he’s not doing it laying down. 

“You said - ” Sam licks his lips. Dean swallows. Sam’s down to just his t-shirt now, his boots unlaced. “You said you liked being my first.” 

He did. Regrets admitting it because it’s about the most twisted part of that whole thing but he had to give Sam something in return for all that over-sharing. Sam had barely reacted to it, looked too damn shell-shocked by it and Dean figured that was for the best. 

“I - did you like that too? Being with Rachel before I was?” 

Fuck, he should be too tired to get hard but he’s chubbing up his jeans. His brother really shouldn’t be able to do that to him, didn’t used to before they started picking all this apart. 

“Dean?” 

He clears his throat. “Dad’s in the next room, Sam.” 

His puppy-dog eyes are in full damn force. “It’s just a question.” 

He snorts. Sam can’t get away with that innocent act with him. Sam drops it a second later, lips twitching as he looks down. That’s even worse for what it does to Dean’s libido, the way he pretends at shy when he’s anything but. 

When the hell did his libido get so cued into Sam anyway? He’s his freaking brother. Sure, a jerk session was a jerk session, and hearing about Sam with Jess was just hot, okay? Any red-blooded man with a thing for blondes would get off to hearing about how she got drilled and loved every minute of it. But this is different. This is _Sam _he’s getting hot for, not just some errant horniness that’s seeping out at the edges toward the closest person in the room. 

“Did you like it?” Sam prompts again, but this time his voice is lower, syrupy and knowing. Dean inhales. _I just drilled in. She was still in that dress_. That’s the voice. 

“Yeah. Fuck Sam, I liked it.” Okay, they’re doing this. He can do this. He can keep ahead of this speeding train, just gotta wrap his head around it. “Should’a seen her.” 

Sam’s eyes light up. He shifts so he’s halfway facing Dean and Dean spreads his legs a little. The lights are on and that’s different but this – this doesn’t have to _be _different. 

“She was so pretty in that dress. Blue and frilly, above the knee. And eyes wicked when she smiled. Jailbait.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, breathless. The tent in his pants looks downright painful. 

“The way she smiled at me when we picked her up. Kept giving me eyes from the rearview. I could see she was so good to go, knew you’d get laid easy as pie that night, baby brother.” 

Sam lets out a quiet groan, reaching for his belt. Dean leans himself back against the headboard and the pillows and starts on his own. He’s gotta remind himself to keep the brother stuff out of this. 

“Picked you kids up - don’t know how much damn punch you had. She was so giggly, leaning on your arm, leaning on my arm, wrapped around it, squeezing and handsy.” 

“Couldn’t keep her hands off you,” Sam halfway growls. Dean’s eyes flick to his. They’re hooded and hot. He swallows. 

“That’s right. Desperate little thing. You stumbled into the house, went to throw up,” Dean laughs at the memory. “She couldn’t wait. Wrapped her arms right around my neck and said ‘please’ and my self-control ain’t that tight.” 

Sam’s head lolls back, hand in his underwear, fisting but Dean can’t see, not yet. He spreads his own legs further, gets his own because it’s aching for it, already dribbling. “Couldn’t stand it, Sam, she was so tiny and hot. Picked her right up off the ground without so much as a care, dropped her on your bed in our room.” 

“Fuck,” Sam whispers, hand shifting, dick poking out the top of his boxers now. Dean’s mouth goes dry. 

“She was sloppy for it, needy and whining. Pulled that pretty dress right off her shoulders and sucked her tits, made her rub her clit while I fucked her. Everything smelled like you.” 

“She cum?” Sam prompts and pulls off his tee at the same time, muscles and torso all bare and beautiful for Dean. He's lean and strong and all traces of baby fat are long gone, have been for a while. He’s so much more solid than he was then, grown up and huge all over. 

“Hell yeah she came,” he almost laughs, can’t tear his eyes off Sam. “Scratching down my back like a good girl.” 

“I remember. I saw - ” Sam’s voice is constricted and Dean’s dick jumps in his hand. He saw? 

“You saw?” 

He huffs out a breath, eyes open again, landing on Dean, on his lap and where he’s got both hands on it, one playing with his balls and the other stroking. 

“Yeah. Didn’t take that long to get the poison out. Was watching when she tore your back to threads. Remembered wondering how good it would feel to be on the end of Dean Winchester’s magical dick – so good that it made his little brother’s prom date drop her panties three steps in the door.’ 

He almost laughs again but it’s choked, shocked. Fuck, it slams the memory in place, Sam on a musty carpet, tight as a vice around him, legs and arms around him and moaning, gasping, eyes dark and face so pretty with his mouth open, Dean desperate to lick into it. _Fuck_. 

“You did. You felt it.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, and then he’s up on his knees, shuffling over the scant foot of No Man’s Land between them. Dean’s heart jumps up his throat, unable to move, hand still and eyes wide as Sam leans between his legs, folds himself over Dean, bare chest to Dean’s tee, jeans pooled around their thighs, Sam’s breath tickling his neck. He can feel the brush of Sam’s knuckles as he starts stroking again and lets out a strangled breath. 

“Felt you fill me up.” 

_God_. Dean’s eyes roll back, hand starting up again. Sam licks his neck. It’s too much to process, skin burning, sensations stretching. 

“Should’a kicked Rachel out. Should’a got you to lay back for round two. Almost asked for it but you got out of bed and fucking bowed and she spread her legs for me, blushing and happy.” 

That’s familiar, that’s a memory Dean can handle. He unsticks his throat, tilts his neck to give Sam access for where he’s starting to suck. 

“You stripped and crawled right on, didn’t fucking hesitate. Saw you get your dick in her and I was proud, little brother.” Sam’s teeth dig in and Dean’s eyes roll back. “Got her all nice and wet for you.” 

Sam moves his hand, tilts his hips and Dean hisses when they’re aligned, spreads and arches for it. It shouldn’t feel so good – it's just more skin – but it does, maybe because suddenly it’s Sam’s hand stroking both of them, Sam’s lips on his, Sam’s tongue in his mouth and all of it enough to overload every synapse in his brain. He groans and makes out with Sam, kisses him deep for all he’s worth, one hand in that stupid hair and the other hovering till it finds his hip, feels the way Sam’s rolling them to get friction on his dick. He only pulls back to add more spit to his hand, both of them leaking enough to barely need it and Dean invites the kiss this time, desperate for the edge. 

It doesn’t take long, not with Sam rocking against him, ruining him. Sam bites his lip and Dean comes, sudden and amazing, spilling wet all over Sam’s hand, slicking them and pulsing against his cock. Sam groans, rutting hard and Dean’s still gasping, just coming down but still quaking but he wants Sam to get there fast and he - 

“Come on, little brother.” 

Sam groans and shoots, face tucked into Dean’s neck and hips erratic as he makes a mess of them both. 

They lay there a minute, catching their breath. It cools on his skin and Dean’s nose wrinkles up, knowing he doesn’t want to let it get crusty, even if Sam’s breath is even and soft and comforting, a solid steady weight atop him. 

“We really gotta stop meeting like this.” 

Sam snorts. “Yeah. Well. Whoops.” 

He leans back though, trudges to the bathroom with his pants down and comes back with a cloth for Dean. He thanks him and starts to swipe at it. His stomach drops out the second he remembers - 

“D’you think – Dad didn’t - ?” 

“Hear?” Sam shrugs, finishes cleaning himself. “Doubt it. We weren’t exactly banging the headboard on the wall.” 

Dean swallows, the regret starting to sink it. Sam cups his chin, surprising him. His eyes are intense and serious when they land on Dean’s. 

“Hey. I meant it before – I've always been messed up about you. Drude threw us over that line almost a decade back and if Dad _did _hear, he’s got no one to blame but himself.” 

He stares back, intent. “Sure you’re not gonna come up with some flowery love confessions on me? Make this all weird and girly?” It’s tight, strangled. There’s too much he can’t handle about this, too fragile. Sam drops his chin, almost a smile. 

“You’re my brother, Dean. No butterflies in my stomach. I _love _you, and I’d die for you, and maybe we’re a little co-dependent and weird - ” 

“A little?” He sighs, hand scrubbing through the back of his hair. It earns a laugh from Sam anyway, who sits on his own bed and looks at his hands. Not curled in on himself, not ashamed, just soft, contemplating. 

“A lot, fine. Point is... I don’t think I regret it. Any of it. The drude, the... the things we didn’t talk about before, or this either. We’re good, and if this makes us feel... better, _closer_ like you said – who cares?” 

“This is stepping over all those lines I tried to build.” 

“I know. Is that okay?” 

Of course it’s not freaking okay, it’s - Dean blows out a breath and settles back, elbows on his knees, head resting against the wall. “We’re going after the thing that killed Mom, y’know? We’re travelling with Dad. And when we kill that sunova bitch...” 

He can’t say it. Sam’s smart, he’ll get there. 

“You don’t wanna do this... because you think you’ll lose it?” 

Great, now Dean’s the one who went and made it girly and weird. It’s not that he doesn’t want to lose _this_ \- this is just, whatever it is. It’s that he doesn’t want to lose Sammy, not again. Not when he feels like they’re vibrating at the same frequency finally, now, for the first time in so long he can hardly believe it. 

“I’m not... thinking about law school anymore, Dean.” 

His head shoots up. Sam’s talking to his hands again. 

“Finishing one semester – sure. I can manage that, get that piece of paper, or fill out all the paperwork to just get them to let me write the exams I missed in absentia and get it anyway without going back. But law school would be three more years and then articling and the bar and – and I’d never see you. Not really. I’d be working 14 to 16 hour days for the first few years and stuck in one place.” 

“Sam.” His throat is tight. 

“I think... it’s stupid, but - .” He laughs in a way Dean knows is self-deprecating. He hates when Sam laughs like that. “I almost wonder if that memory of the drude didn’t shake loose when we were arguing about me going back just to make me realize why I want to stay. And no, Dean, not for your magical dick.” In before Dean can make the crack. “But for – we’d do anything for each other. Too much. But I’d rather do anything for you than nothing of value for everyone else. Maybe I could be a great lawyer, some type of pro bono public-defender that could help. But I’m not sure that's how it works and I'm not sure I even want that anymore. I’m starting to think that dream died with Jessica. And maybe I will do something other than hunting when Yellow-Eyes is in the ground – take a vacation, get an honest job, move up to Sioux Falls and catalogue Bobby’s library.” 

They both laugh at that. Sam shakes his head but the dimples on his face are real this time. 

“Point is – whatever I do, hunting or not, school or not, I don’t plan to leave you behind. These visions might not go away and they might keep dragging me around the country and I might need you to help me if they do. But I just... I can’t even remember how I got started on this topic.” 

Dean’s sitting up. He tucked himself away a long time ago and now the rag he cleaned himself up with drops to the ground. His boots are still on and that feels almost silly. Sam’s shirt’s still off. They’re quite the pair. 

He could make a comment, about how he brought it up because of the incest train and how it seems to maybe be leaving the station and Dean’s really not sure how he feels about that, how he’s _supposed_ to feel about it, what his Dad would say if he knew or what he’d do about it. But this isn’t really about any of that and it’s not just about Sam’s anger or their childhood or - 

Dean doesn’t like thinking about things too much. He likes them as they are, likes to take ‘em as they come, likes to hold things while he can keep them because he knows they slip away, and wishing for them doesn’t bring them back. But Sam came back. 

“So we’re together? Y’know - as brothers I mean. You’re cute but you’re not making an honest man out of me anytime soon.” It’s a poor deflection but Sam smiles anyway. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But yeah - we're together. Sam and Dean against the world." 

Dean nods. It's good enough for him.

They clean up, shower, and get ready for bed. It’s freaking late and lord knows Dad is gonna have them up at the ass-crack of dawn and there’s not much they can do to complain about it, so sleep takes them quickly. They're in separate beds, same as ever, but he can hear Sam's breathing, deep and slow and fast asleep, and nothing in the world sounds or feels better than falling asleep knowing he's safe.

… 

In the morning, the world doesn’t change, the colours don’t rearrange, the sky doesn't fall. They pile into the car shoulder to shoulder, tired but at ease in their skin and with each other. 

At lunch, Dean thinks back on the drude and looks over at his father’s expression, focused on the research he has laid out, nothing else in the world but him and those pages. He would – he’d do it. Ask Dean to fuck his brother to kill a monster and get him to roofie Sam so he never found out the truth. Because Sam’s smart, and it didn’t take him long to put the pieces into place once he had them all. Dad knew that, knew Sam did the research so he planned for it and wiped his hands of it as if it didn’t mess both his sons up because that’s just who John Winchester is. 

But the anger Dean feels is residual, lost to the memory of holding Sam tight that day, to the reality of having him back, to the promise he got last night that Sam’s not going away again, not in anywhere near so final a way. 

Besides – they all got something out of it. Dad got to kill a monster. Sam got to have an excuse for all the weirdness between him and Dean, as if he didn’t all but admit it was there all along. And Dean got his brother, in all the ways he shouldn’t have him but still whole and entirely his. 

So whatever comes at them next, Dean knows they can take it, Yellow-Eyes and whatever else. So long as he’s got Sam. 

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of samdean fics, especially of the x-made-them-do-it variety, follow a kind of formula of “bad thing happens, they yell about it a lot, then love confessions are had and they are good to go”. I like that formula a lot, but wanted to stretch things out a bit in a way that didn’t hinge so much on longstanding, secretly burning feelings of love, but still kept that flavour of mutual attraction. I wanted no love confession, in fact, because they love each other so deeply that being in love is in no way distinct – that their love is already so all-consuming and co-dependent that it doesn’t matter exactly what shade it takes, it’s still always just them in a way they don’t need to re-label or acutely define. 
> 
> And because of that, confessing attraction isn’t a horrible or altogether shocking revelation because it’s already thrumming under the surface and they’ve already flirted with those lines, and the idea that embarrassing teenage crushes or inappropriate boners could be worse than anything else they’ve done, or bad enough to cause one or the other leaving, is kind of inconceivable given where they’re at emotionally. So in the end, adding sex to their dynamic is just that – adding sex, not adding anything else, because the rest is already there, has always been. 
> 
> But I digress. This started out as a quick one-shot with the drude that was going to end with a fist fight and a kiss to make up, and spiralled instead into 18k+ words of Sam coming to terms with needing his brother while Dean came to terms with wanting his, all in their steady, quiet way. The tone kind of shifted toward the end but I’m too lazy to go and re-write the first act to account for that tonal shift so this is what you get. Enjoy. 
> 
> PS - just came back to edit and remembered I wanted to add that Rachel (Sam's prom date) was canonically a demon and Dean also canonically slept with her, so make of that what you will.  

> 
> **Tl;dr: Thanks for reading! Comments are love. **


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